Camp Sage and Sand

By Richard C. Smith

Being in the right place at the right time.

At 34 years-old, Melvin Van Alan worries that his life has about reached the half-way mark and he is yet to do something significant with it. Then an appealing radio commercial sparks his interest and he suddenly decides he wants to teach writing as a summer camp volunteer.

After all he is a New York public relations expert and he knows young people would benefit from the value of his experience. This is just the beginning of a series of innocent blunders Mel makes as he takes on the challenges of counselor at Camp Sage and Sand, a Christian boy’s camp in Indian country, near Cortez, Colorado.

From his first hour as counselor, Mel is thrust into one situation following another that totally forces him out of his comfort zone. Yet, he struggles to win each challenge with the help of his newly made friends on staff who call on God at every turn and demonstrate to this puzzled Jewish newcomer that they know how to put their Christian faith to work.

Mel starts to hate, then comes to like and then love the hot, dry surroundings and the overall purpose of the camp for disadvantaged youth. In the biggest public relations scheme he has ever proposed, he gambles to save the land of Camp Sage and Sand from being taken over by officials connected with the federal government. It does appear God has placed Mel in the right place at the right time to help secure the future of a little mission camp in Colorado.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664277090

Richard C. Smith

After many years as a New York advertising executive, Richard C. Smith turned to writing fiction––the real desire in his life. Following retirement, he has authored a wide variety of novels and short stories which have touched him personally–– from his family history, to the New York business scene. Originally from Colorado, he loves to write about the state in which he grew up. He and his wife, Susan, are now living in central Pennsylvania, where they can be near or travel to visit their extended family, including five grandchildren.

Book preview

Camp

Sage

and

Sand

RICHARD C. SMITH

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Copyright © 2022 Richard C. Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. With the exception of locations, all of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

844-714-3454

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

The Living Bible copyright © 1971 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved. The Living Bible, TLB, and the The Living Bible logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7707-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7708-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7709-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022916138

WestBow Press rev. date: 9/29/2022

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Other Books by the Author

Bouquet

Dreams of Gold

The Alpha Project

Siberian Sons

When pride comes, then comes shame, but

with humility, there is wisdom.

—Proverbs 11:2

Chapter 1

I WAS TUNING BETWEEN various radio stations, looking for my classical favorite, when I realized that I had somehow strayed off FM and was being assaulted by a heavy dose of AM commercials. The announcer was just saying, Yes, you can turn in your old car in any condition and take a tax deduction on the vehicle. Your used automobile donation will aid the ongoing work of Camps with Kids summertime programs throughout America.

I thought how I certainly could use a hefty tax deduction on my rusty 1994 Volvo. Besides, I would hardly miss it since I rarely drove around where I lived and worked in Manhattan. I wrote down the 800 number and was about ready to get back to the FM dial when the announcer made one last appeal.

Not only do we need your old car, but we need you! Camps with Kids has many openings for volunteer workers willing to share their own personal time and talents with eager boys and girls of all ages. This is your opportunity to change even one life for a lifetime! We are looking for craft instructors, riding instructors, gym teachers, personal counselors, and people who just want to be a big brother or sister. The need is so very, very great. Please call us today.

The commercial struck a chord deep within me. Here I was, a single thirty-four-year-old whose life was more than a third of the way over. I was making an OK living as a public relations freelancer, but it seemed a waste not to share some of the tricks of my craft as a writing instructor like the announcer said. If I could change just one little person’s life, I would love to do it.

My resolve mushroomed faster than I could contain it. I ran to get a clean pad of paper in front of me and then called the 800 number before I changed my mind. While the phone rang, my heart started to race. I tried to think what I would say. Before I was even mentally ready, a friendly person was saying, ENDCO. How can I help you?

I cleared my throat. I’m looking at the possibility of helping at Camps with Kids this summer. Your radio commercial sort of got to me, and I thought maybe I could be of assistance to some of your young people. I started to say how the announcer had made me think of how my life was a third over, but a new connection was already ringing in my ear.

A very sweet female voice—perfect for soothing any doubt I’d had in making the call—identified herself as Miss Abrams. When I gave my name, Melvin Van Alan, and a quick resume of myself, she sounded very pleased. Her main thrust was to encourage me to come in for an interview as soon as possible. The summer is already upon us, and we are eager to fill several important positions, she said. So, we made an appointment for the very next day.

The more I thought about it, the more excited I got. I owed it to myself to take some time off. I hadn’t bothered to slow the treadmill I’d been on for I don’t know how long—three, maybe four years. The last time I could remember was when a cousin was getting married in Stony Brook, out on Long Island. It was quite a trip, so it made sense to stay over. And when I got there, it was so beautiful that I just hung out for three days. I even got to go sailing.

The idea of camping in the woods seemed equally exhilarating. The smell of pine after a brief rain, smoke wafting over from the cookhouse. Maybe even songs by the fire after dark. I definitely felt the need for a break in my relentless schedule, and this assignment could undoubtedly renew me in body and mind.

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A VERY ATTRACTIVE MISS Abrams met me in her office where the walls were adorned with large photos of children from every race and color obviously enjoying the great outdoors. I didn’t see any woodland classrooms, but I expected that showing indoor activities was perhaps less marketable. She explained that Camps with Kids was a division of the ENDCO Corporation. The company’s founder and president, General Robert Enders, had originally set it up to give New York children from the ghettos the advantage of a summer away in the Catskills. The program had taken off, and now there were some thirty-five camps scattered across the US.

Let’s get some background on you, she said.

We sat on canvas camp stools at a peeled-log table as she pulled out a questionnaire. This will help me find just where you will be the most help to us. She took me through several areas in which I identified myself, and as we went on, she seemed a little hesitant.

Your prep school background and handball activity could be of some use, I suppose, but have you had any one-on-one experience with youngsters about twelve years of age, for instance?

I couldn’t come up with many offhand, until I remembered how I had roughhoused with my friend’s two nephews one afternoon up at the lake. The kids I supervised last summer thought I was pretty terrific, I said. They still talk about the fun we had and beg me to come again this year.

That helped a little, I think, but it was the very mention of my seven years with the Upper Bronx Saddle Club that perked her up. As a freelancer, I had written many stories about the club. Unfortunately, I was not a member, but I had watched many a blue-ribbon dressage program from the stands.

I began to feel the passion Miss Abrams had in inspiring possible volunteers by her enthusiasm and breathless rush in describing the successes of Camps with Kids. In particular, she told me that their newest camp was situated in southwestern Colorado. Here, among the various native Indians of the region, low-income boys were being given the chance to get away from an environment of poverty and learn basic industrial skills that could give them a chance for a better life. She encouraged me to visualize such a place and think of myself becoming one of their key volunteers.

I have to admit that I am completely awed by the beauty of the Colorado Rocky Mountains. I still keep last year’s Gunner’s Gin calendar hanging over the phone. Month after month, I get to review again the lovely mountain streams pouring down rock formations and valleys of wildflowers. All year it had made me want to throw caution to the winds and invest in a one-way ticket to pursue writing my first novel from a little cabin in the woods.

I left Miss Abrams’s rustic office proud that I might inspire even a few young American Indians with some sound writing techniques. She promised to call immediately following a required background check.

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MISS ABRAMS CALLED TWO days later with the exciting news that I had been accepted into the Camps with Kids volunteer ranks for the full summer. By then, I had built up an eager anticipation about going. I would need to leave for Colorado the following Tuesday, giving me only six days to wind up my client affairs and update my will. I asked her if I would be required to have immunization shots, and she assured me that this wasn’t really necessary, although I might want to take some bottled water to start me out until I could buy some locally.

I wasn’t much of a traveler, having driven only as far as Lake Erie, and never out of New York state. Considering the extreme distance to Colorado, I worried about my unreliable Volvo, but on the other hand, I couldn’t be without my own transportation. I asked Miss Abrams what clothing and gear I should take, and she asked if I had jeans and cowboy boots. It was fortunate that I had purchased both for a recent Western Night at the Saddle Club, but the high-heeled boots tended to give me a headache after walking in them for any length of time.

Still, I was thrilled to feel accepted by such a large corporation through whose connections I might use in helping to pitch future freelance articles on Colorado. I thanked Miss Abrams for being so kind, and she promised to forward everything I would need to know in an overnight packet. What really added to the call was her comment that she hoped to get to know me better and not forget to come by and see her when I returned to New York.

In the meantime, I went through all of my textbooks and notes I had taken at Columbia University School of Journalism and tried to condense the most important portions for a summer’s curriculum. I got somewhat bogged down as I enjoyed reviewing the material so much that I wished now I had taken time to reread them since I graduated. I made a note to get back to a more in-depth study when I returned in the fall.

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SIX DAYS LATER, I was packed and ready for my upcoming summer adventure. I stowed my old reliable computer and printer and plenty of paper in the back seat of the car. I wanted to be able to print out homework assignments as I went. I regretted that I didn’t have a laptop, as my seventeen-inch monitor was pretty heavy and took up crucial space. I was going to need a good-sized little cabin with plenty of electric outlets for myself and all my gear.

I packed every piece of underwear from my drawer and all my white shirts just in case I sweat too much while on duty. I did have a couple of poplin blue shirts that I thought would look good with my one pair of jeans. I also had bought some heavy socks for my boots, but most of the time, I would plan to wear my usual calf-length stockings and polished loafers.

I had no family to say goodbye to. Puffy, my twelve-year-old tabby, went permanently to the lady one floor below to add to her own menagerie of three cats. I suddenly felt very strange with the thought of leaving the city, but then I recalled some pretty sage words from my late maiden aunt that made sense now. She said, Remember, Melvin, if you don’t stick your big toe in the water, you’ll never learn how to swim.

So, I turned my face to the west with only a bit of hesitance and drove out of town with a full tank of New York gas. Just think of it, I said to myself. This is going to be your chance to leave an impression on some young people out there somewhere. Make it count!

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I don’t recall most of the trip. All interstates look alike. I paused at every third rest stop to stretch. I had a bit of celebration once when I found a croissant to eat with my coffee instead of Danish in cellophane. By and large, the people I met seemed nice, and a few even held the door for me and smiled. I realized that this was actually a pretty nice world, and maybe Americans outside of New York were real people after all.

I never developed an urge to travel. Too much to plan, too many struggles en route, and for what? Being single meant traveling alone, and I had gotten used to not having someone else to share and savor those awesome moments or unexpected sights. I was glad this trip wasn’t going to be so much sightseeing as it would be like a job that I was going off to—a kind of volunteer business deal—so I didn’t expect there would be much sharing.

I was a loner once again anyway. My girlfriend, Gail, and I had gone together for five years, but I couldn’t see myself married to her for the rest of my life. She recently gave up waiting. Other than her, I didn’t really have anyone close.

Despite that, I think I am a good catch for all my quirks. Being six feet tall, dark hair, a good build from regular gym visits and health diets, I happily attract women wherever I go. It’s just that I’m so particular and much too self-centered for my own good, I find it hard to keep a relationship going for long. I wish things were different in this department, but I was an only child and raised to be perfect in the eyes of my parents and found no reason to change. Both my mother and father have been gone about ten years. My mother’s younger sister was my closest relative until she died a year ago. We were quite close, and I saw her weekly if not more. If I seem a bit old-fashioned, it’s probably because of that. People have remarked that I say things that are rather dated at times. I guess it’s now part of my upbringing. What can I say? I really miss my aunt because she had a terrific sense of humor and offered a lot of good commonsense advice that helped me get through some difficult situations along the way. But she hated to go anywhere far from her little world of a few blocks in each direction that surrounded her in Manhattan, and I guess I picked that up from her. Comfortable, conventional and safe.

It took me three days of conservative driving with all the stops thrown in to get to the one destination I most wanted to see before I began my counseling duties. The March photo on my Gunner’s Gin calendar featured the Four Corners National Monument, the only place in these United States where four states meet together at one spot. My atlas had told me that this was also at the very edge of the largest Indian reservation in the United States, the land of the Navajo. I was eagerly anticipating standing on the exact convergence of Colorado, Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona. But when I finally arrived in the late afternoon, I saw a small sign on a barrier across the entrance: Four Corners Park Closed for Repairs. I humorously pictured a steady stream of tourists taking so many rock souvenirs that the four corners didn’t touch anymore. Disappointed, I backtracked to where the camp was supposed to be located—somewhere southwest of Cortez, Colorado.

Miss Abrams had sent along only sparse details about the camp in her overnight packet to me. Camp Sage was new to the ENDCO family, but apparently it had been in private hands for many years prior.

I closely followed the small map provided, and just south of Cortez, I spotted the county airport, which was to point me to the next turnoff on the road into McElmo Canyon. The directions then said in a few miles I was to look for a major tower of rock, rising straight up from the banks of the McElmo River.

The landscape along the canyon road proved a marked contrast from the dry desert highway I had just left. The area was bordered by trees and grasses as it followed the river between impressive sandstone formations on both sides. By the time I could see the rock tower in the distance, it was mostly dark. Yet, the way was illuminated by a moon so brilliant with a huge array of stars that I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had never been far enough away from city lights to see such a wonderful display of the Milky Way extending from one horizon to the other.

Eventually, after some false starts up one side road after another, I finally came upon a large cluster of tents sheltered by the massive rock wall that rose toward the sky. In the starry light, I could just make out the top high above. And far below, a sizable pond shimmered alongside a short dock and diving board, which was probably fed from the river that I had crossed a moment earlier. A bright security lamp mounted on a high pole over a long adobe building added its glow to the moon shining on the large expanse of gray canvas tent peaks.

By then it was close to nine o’clock, and no one was about. Suddenly, the somber notes of taps sounded forth from an ancient recording over a PA system, blaring loud and shrill and echoing off the rocky cliff.

I guided my car next to the building and got out. After the bugle’s last mournful note faded, followed by a few scratchy clicks, the record was audibly taken off the turntable. I headed for a door centered below the blazing light. Above it in fading paint was a sign that spelled out Camp Sage and Sand in curved letters.

A large balding man, maybe fifty-five years or so, stuffed into what appeared to be a Boy Scout leader’s uniform, turned as I entered. He seemed surprised to have a visitor at this hour dressed in a suit. But with a quick smile, he strode to the counter that separated us.

What can I do for you? he said.

I put down my overnight grip. I’m Melvin Van Alan, I answered. I guess I’m signed up to be a volunteer for the summer, and I just arrived.

His bushy eyebrows shot up. Well, Mr. Van Alan, I’m Commander Dougan. He put out a big hand and shook mine. We were expecting you much earlier. But, hey, I’m glad to meet you. I guess you must think the place is deserted.

I was wondering …

We git the kids down and lights out by nine. No exceptions, he said. Reveille is at 6:30 a.m., and they all need plenty of sleep. Anyways, you’re probably tired too. Why don’t I show you to your quarters, and we can talk in the a.m. He grabbed a big battery lantern off the wall and led me out and around the building.

Commander Dougan showed me to a roomy canvas tent that one could stand up in, like all the rest in the camp, affixed to a slightly sagging wooden platform below. It’s a good thing I hadn’t bothered to bring bed linens, as I could see I wasn’t going to need them. It housed two metal army cots with rolled-up sleeping bags. I was at least thankful to see I had no roommate already snoring away.

You’ll be comfortable here. Breakfast is at 7:00 a.m. sharp. The mess is in the building. Showers and latrines too. Have a good night. He turned and left me to figure out where I was in the dark. I wasn’t sure about the mess he was referring to. He must have wanted to warn me to avoid it. I was worried it might be from the latrines.

In the muted glow from the camp’s nightlight and the big moon filtering through the tent, I pulled my PJs over my underwear. For being so hot during the day, the night air had a decided nip to it, and I was getting frozen. The sleeping bag seemed fairly fresh, but I couldn’t help wondering who had used it last.

Luckily, I only had to get up once during the night, and the trip to the latrine was just across the small clearing. Toward morning, it rained very hard, spearheaded by huge thunderclaps and white shards of lightning that I could see even with my eyes closed. I was thankful the tent canvas held up against the heavy downpour. Suffice it to say, I got very little sleep after it started.

Chapter 2

THE BUGLE FOR REVEILLE came all too soon, but the sun was already up. I dragged out of my warm sleeping bag and tucked my washcloth, towel, and shaving kit under my arm. Then I stuck my head out of the tent to see what was going on.

Kids of various young ages were silently trudging, carrying white towels, rubbing their eyes, and dragging along in their bare feet through an inch or so of mud toward the big adobe building. The morning rain had turned the powdered dirt into thick cocoa. I recoiled and pulled my head in to think things through. I was going to start my morning with caked mud on either my slippers or bare feet. But wait! Thanks to Miss Abrams, I’d brought a pair of cowboy boots. The only problem was they were in my car.

So I dressed in yesterday’s clothes and, rolling up my pants, stepped gingerly in my bare feet through the muck around the building to my car. There I retrieved one suitcase and got back to my tent. With a bottle of Evian pure water, I washed my feet, put on my new white socks and new jeans, pulled on my boots, and joined the line at the latrine.

Despite my early-morning problems, I was awestruck by the breathtaking location of this little camp. As described on the map, an utterly gigantic solitary cliff served as a backdrop that rose perhaps 350 feet above me. The dawning sun produced dancing shades of pink and light cream on the red sandstone face, revealing brown vertical streaks where the runoff water had carved lines from its flat top, almost like a great monument. Various indentations and caves marked the surface, and a few hardy junipers had taken hold and were growing against all impossible odds of life on the sheer wall.

Commander Dougan spied me and came over as I stood in line to wash up. You don’t have to go in there with the kids. He pointed to another door, Counselors Only, and gave me a friendly shove.

Inside, two other men were shaving at the double sinks. I gave a quick hi, and they watched me find a place for my things. They were both either of Spanish American or Indian descent. I couldn’t tell.

You the new instructor? one of them, a rugged muscular fellow, said.

That’s right. The name’s Mel.

Nice to know you. He turned to me with shaving lather on his face and gave me a wet handshake.

The other man just stared.

This here’s Jesus Joe, he said. He pronounced his first name with an H on the first letter, but a J on Joe. Hesus Joe. You can call me Steve, he said.

They finished, and I was left alone to wash the best I could. I looked longingly at the showers and made a plan to get back in here as early as possible.

Breakfast was an eye-opener. When I saw a sign for the mess hall, I realized what the Commander had been talking about the night before. From a quiet, sullen, droopy start, the young campers had come alive and were calling loudly to each other, wrestling for biscuits that were piled on big platters on the long tables or waiting impatiently in line for scrambled eggs and bacon strips to be put on their plates by two Indian ladies, sweating over their steam tables.

I figured there were about fifty or so youngsters, ranging in age from maybe eight to fourteen. These kids were mostly black-haired, dark-skinned Indian stock, and all were boys. I was briefly panicked to wonder how I was going to draw out their writing skills, if any. Not one of them seemed the kind to sit quietly and write a piece on How I Plan to Spend My Summer.

Commander Dougan was holding court with a bunch of men at one of several tables in the corner reserved for the counselors. He waved his hand in the air to catch my eye before I got stuck in another line. Come on over and join us, he called.

He introduced me to those at his table while a woman from the kitchen set a big plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. Steve is Recreation Director, Jesus Joe is his assistant and also a silversmith, Howard is Equipment and Maintenance, and Don is Industrial Arts. Each man nodded or gave thumbs-up as his name was mentioned. I got a bunch of nods of welcome from the men at the other table as they watched our introductions.

Melvin here is our new riding instructor. He patted my back with fatherly enthusiasm. Even though these kids know a lot about what they’re doing, this year I wanted to have someone who could hone those skills a little better. Maybe even produce some real performers. I smiled at everyone at the table and was pleased to hear that perhaps these children had some talents that I could work with after all.

After breakfast, I expect you’ll want to git down and meet our wranglers. They’ve been watching for you every day, the Commander said.

I didn’t follow him. What’s a wrangler? I asked.

Everyone at the table laughed, and I found myself laughing with them for no particular reason.

Maybe you call them something else back East. He chuckled. They handle all the horses and see to everything in the corral.

I was still mystified and wanted more clarification. Wait a minute, I said. What do horses have to do with writing?

Everyone went into side splits again, as if this was the best joke